Familiar Territory
by aphleser
Summary: Call wants Ripley to teach her how to shoot a machine gun, and Ripley has other skills to teach too...


**So I watched the Alien films one after the other in a week, and I'm so gay for Ellen Ripley it's unreal. They could release a film of her making toast and I'd throw all of my money at it. I love the fourth film the best (Alien Resurrection), A. because Ripley gets even hotter (somehow) and B. she flirts a lot more ("So who do I have to fuck to get off this ship?" *cue me screaming "I VOLUNTEER" loudly at the telly*), and I love her interactions with Call (Winona Ryder, that cutie). So I went to the fanfiction, and there isn't much out there, I'm sad to say. I'm all about making the content you want to see, so here's a bunch of fics all surrounding my obsession with Ellen Ripley.**

 **Oh, and I** **headcanon Ripley as a die-hard lesbian. I just need this, okay?**

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Free moments didn't make their way to Ripley often, so she had learned to grasp onto them with all of her might. Even an hour or two to sleep, or five minutes to sit still were blessings, brief respites from the seemingly never-ending nightmare of her reality.

But in this most recent installment of the shitshow that made up her life free time didn't come. It seemed her knack for finding a quiet place to reflect, plan or relax had left her, along with her human fingernails and average strength. Ripley looked down at her thin hands, so familiar with her bony knuckles, so unfamiliar with her glossy black claws. Her memories, personality and self-image had been taken and shaken up so that she was disorientated in her own head. Whilst in her cage, she had worked through what she could remember, and what she could not. Half-thoughts and recollections became fully-fledged images and perceptions, allowing her to file certain memories and information away carefully.

Like the memory of the little girl from Hadley's Hope, whose name wouldn't come to Ripley no matter how hard she tried. The pain of losing her was real, but her name seemed like a dying star in Ripley's mind.

Other people in Ripley's life made cameo roles in her memories. Her daughter, Amanda Ripley. Ripley mouthed the syllables of her name, committing the shape of them on her lips to her memory. Amanda, bright and beautiful, who looked like Ripley and was proud of it.

The drifters she had found herself with weren't as memorable. Johner was scarred and loud-mouthed, Vriess was decent enough, Christie was admirably tough, Hillard a survivor, albeit a bitter one. Call, the synthetic, with eyes like molten obsidian, she was different. Ripley felt a flush of embarrassment, remembering her previous life, and the women in it. Trust Ellen Ripley to remain sapphic even after her rebirth as a clone. Her feelings made Ripley feel like a schoolgirl again.

As if she had conjured her out of thin air, Ripley looked up at the hissing automatic doors to see Call walk in, hair somehow neat, jumpsuit flattering her far more than it should. Ripley liked her own vest and trousers, her dormant sense of personaly style awoken unexpectedly by the shape they gave her body; strong, sleek, capable. But Call made that soft blue jumpsuit look absolutely right, the collar quirked away from the sensitive dip of her shoulder. Ripley was loathe to use the word 'cute', but it did fit Call to a tee.

"Hello." Ripley smiled at Call, trying her best to look non-threatening. The Alien in her showed itself far more than she liked, made her look unstable, dangerous. Call smiled hesitantly back. The yelled "We can't trust her!" hung between them, but Ripley shrugged it off. It wasn't the first time, and she doubted it would be the last.

"What can I do for you?" Ripley tried when no words came from Call. The synthetic woman looked around her, nerves obvious in her wringing fingers. Ripley tilted her head and patted the empty space next to her. Call sat down, and stared straight ahead. She hadn't looked at Ripley since she came in, and as much as Ripley wanted to be patient and let her speak in her own time, her impatience was itching at her insides.

"Call?" She prompted, and the android finally looked at her, their eyes meeting. Ripley felt a current run through her body at the casual intimacy.

"I want you to show me how to use a gun, or a flamethrower, or anything that can help me kill those _things_!" Call exploded, her mouth moving with the emotion of her words.

Riplay contained the urge to purr "'I want' never gets, darling," somehow feeling that this wasn't quite the right moment to flirt. Call seemed like she meant business. Ripley rose, and grabbed the closest firearm, which happened to be a flamethrower/machine gun hybrid, of Christie's own design. How apt, thought Ripley, the perfect crossover weapon for the perfect crossover human. She crooked her index finger in a come-hither motion, and Call stood up, hands by her side. She didn't come over, however, and Ripley smiled.

"Don't worry, neither of us bite. Unless you want us to." Call rolled her eyes, but couldn't hide her small smile. She walked over, running her slender fingers over the barrel of the gun.

"How do you use it?" Call asked, eyes raking over the body of the firearm, black and dangerous, like spilt oil. Ripley shifted, lifting the gun above her own head and settling the strap on Call's shoulder. Call accepted the gun seamlessly, but breathed in sharply as Ripley pulled her tightly into her own personal space, still holding the weapon.

"See how I'm holding it?" Ripley asked, her mouth near Call's ear, "My dominant hand is on the trigger, and my other is holding the barrel. The closer your hand is to the front of the barrel, the more steady your shot will be. Which is paramount, considering our targets. Got that?" Call made a noise of determined assent, holding the gun closer to her chest.

"That's it, settle the butt of the gun between the seam of where your pectoral muscle meets your shoulder, no, a little lower," Ripley moved the butt of the gun down, her knuckles brushing against Call's side, just under her arm. Call stayed the urge to shiver, despite the heat in her cheeks at Ripley's proximity.

"No, stand straighter, plant your feet," Ripley said, her hand moving from Call's hip up to her sternum. Call couldn't stop her shudder this time, but Ripley took it in her stride. It was a sensitive area for most women, she reasoned. Doesn't mean anything, Ellen.

"Spread your legs." Riple commanded. Call turned around, one eyebrow raised.

"Excuse me?" Ripley raised her eyebrows back.

"Spread your legs, it'll give you a good foundation for your balance." Ripley clarified, but a sparkle of something shone in her eyes, "Why, what did you think I was talking about?" Call rolled her eyes again, and felt Ripley's body shake with a chuckle.

Call felt so out of sorts with Ripley. On the one hand, she was part Xenomorph, and her enhanced strength, reflexes and frankly alarming claws were terrifying proof of the genetic splicing between her and the Alien. On the other, she had saved all of their lives countless times, and was still with them. She could easily manouver her own escape and leave the drifters to die prolonged deaths hosting alien offspring. And she was tall, and smelled smoky, and when she smiled Call wanted to smile back.

"And when you fire," Ripley continued, and Call quickly tuned back in, ashamed that she had let her mind wander during such an important lesson, "make sure you fire at a certain point in your breathing cycle, so when you've just breathed out. It improves accuracy. Got all that?" Call nodded, and felt Ripley tighten her grip on the gun briefly, before letting go.

"You're all set, then."

"Thank you, Ripley," Call said, a determined grin on her face, "It means a lot that you'd help me."

"I don't know, I'm sure Johner would be overjoyed to show you how to handle a firearm."

"But I wanted you to do it." Call insisted, feeling the need to show Ripley that she was a part of the drifter team, claws and all.

"Why's that, sweetheart?" Ripley teased, sitting back down and leaning into the wall casually, one hand resting on her thigh.

"Because I don't want you to feel like we're just using you to survive. I care that you make it too." Call felt the air leave her lungs at her confession, and watched Ripley carefully for her reaction.

Ripley looked down at her hands, and tried not to cry. She hadn't felt the urge to cry since being show that picture of a little girl in those degrading therapy lessons. Since then there hadn't been any time for any emotion other than calmness in the face of extreme emergency.

"Ripley?" Call said, moving closer and sitting next to the woman. She put her hand on Ripley's shoulder, and began to apologise.

"I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomf-"

Ripley cut her off with a searing kiss, mouth hot, hands on her delicate jaw. Call was too surprised to react, mouth open and eyes wide. Ripley gentled her kiss, pecked her once, and moved away, a look of vulnerability crossing her angular face.

"I'm sorry, Call, I shouldn't have-"

"Do that again." Call demanded.

"What?"

"Do that again." Call repeated, a blush working it's way under her cheekbones. Her eyes shone, and she half-smiled as Ripley moved closer. She was reticent, her eyes on Call's, fists balled against her thighs.

Call put her hand on the back of Ripley's neck and brought her mouth down on hers. Ripley let out a high gasp, and dove into the kiss with passion she didn't know she had. This felt undeniably human, kissing in the brief moment between attacks from deadly Aliens. Call's hands moved into Ripley's hair, fingers sliding in and gripping against the base of her skull.

Ripley hummed happily into the kiss, the emotion unfamiliar to her in this new body. But the feeling of a woman's lips on hers, that was surprisingly familiar, and very pleasant.

"I can teach you things other than shooting a gun, you know," Ripley said throatily, after they broke apart. Call just laughed.

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 **Yes, I did Google how to hold and shoot an assault rifle, I didn't want anyone to come for me. I hope you enjoyed, leave a Review if you** **please!**


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